


The Time that is Given to Us

by ApologiesInAdvance



Series: Some Courage and Some Wisdom, Blended in Measure [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Reunions, War, Young Gimli
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApologiesInAdvance/pseuds/ApologiesInAdvance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.” – The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring</p><p>Shorts to accompany Made to Endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silent Homecomings

**Author's Note:**

> None of my works are betaed so all mistakes are on my end. I take no credit for any of Tolkien's works or Peter Jackson's films. This is simply a wonderful world which I've loved for years and wanted to take a chance dabbling in.
> 
> I dedicate this first short to all Bifur fans. Other works have led me to love his character and I cannot help but share that feeling.

Battle was not suppose to be this way. Bifur repeated it to himself as he ran forward and blocked an orc’s mace from hitting a downed dwarf. His boar-spear ended the vile creature’s life a moment later. The thought continued to echo in his mind as he lifted the youth, even younger than himself, over his shoulder.  The grime covered dwarf grunted weakly. There was no time for names or introductions. Bifur barely caught sight of a single clean strand of gold hair as he hosted the injured male before he found himself once again defending them both. The dwarf tried to push him away but Bifur ignored him. The battle was ending, the cry that Prince Thorin had dealt a death blow to the Defiler roaring over the fallen. Bifur was too far to be a part of the final charge and could not find his father or uncle, but there was one thing he could do. He could make sure that at least this dwarf did not join their dead and dying kin.

With only his resolve and boar-spear Bifur fought through the remaining orc straggles. He would not remember the violence that followed but many dwarrows would later recall the fierce warrior who raged his way through the last of the enemy. His helm long lost, his shield abandoned, and a comrade upon his shoulders. No battle cry heralded him, only the sound of his spear cutting down the filth. If not for his appearance, one might have mistaken him for one of Fundin’s sons so ferocious was his battle-fever. But in Bifur’s chest all he felt was the reassembling of a fractured heart whose beliefs had been betrayed.

At the healers’ tents he dumped his charge. He did not stop when the healers called for him to stay or when the discarded male asked him to wait. Neither did he notice when one of beads fell from his mangled braid nor when the other dwarf plucked it from the ground.

No. The battle ended and Bifur saw and heard nothing as he passed face after face that looked nothing like his kinsmen’s. What use was winning the battle when so many lay dead? A cry rose up for the fallen, a mourning wail. It rang for fathers, brothers and sons, for their murdered King Thror and their missing heir Thrain. For the fallen warrior Fundin who lay at the feet of the still Prince Frerin. He imagined he could hear Prince Thorin’s yell of despair ascend above the rest. But Bifur did not raise his voice with theirs as he combed the dead. No sound came from his throat. No dirge lingered on his tongue.

Even as he fell to his knees before the bodies of his uncle Bafur and his father Bour, Bifur did not shriek his mourning along with his brethren. Bifur’s grief lay in the noiseless tears that cleansed his kinsmen’s faces of blood. It scattered itself on the bodies of two brothers that had wrapped their arms around each other and died in that embrace. Forever joined by the orcish pike that had pierced through their cheap amour. No prayer or vow fell from Bifur’s lips at the sight. The only sound of his anguish was silent. For no one hears a heart break.

***

He came home or what they now called home. The Broadbeams had originally hailed from Gabilgathol, lost over an age ago. They later lost Kazad–dûm with coming of Durin’s Bane. Erebor and a few small colonies along the Blue Mountains had accepted them, but Smaug’s coming had left part of their clan homeless again. Like Durin’s Folk, they too were left to wander.

The small Dwarven village that lay before the Blue Mountains had been emptied at the call for warriors to Azanulbizar. So many who believed that victory was theirs if they but reached for it. So many that would not return.

He found himself again without words as he faced Aunt Rota at the door. No language to offer comfort with as she looked from him to the beads in his hand and turned away. He had only his arms and shoulder as Bofur clung to him and wept. Uncle Bafur’s funny lucky hat sat askew on his cousin’s head. Little Bombur, still too young to understand the term for tragedy, sobbed pressed between them.

Where his words failed Bifur’s body gave. He could not make Rota eat or tend her children, but he could wrap her in blankets so she was not cold and carry her to bed. He could not tell Bofur the words the lad needed to hear, but he could show the lad that the burden of adulthood was not his alone. The day he pressed a newly carved flute into Bofur’s hands and his cousin laughed was one of his better accomplishments. Constantly he worried he would fail them further. He feared his quiet would keep the little one from speaking as well. He could not give Bombur grand tales or words to mend their hurt. What use were the stories of glory and honor when the only led to broken hearts and dreams? But he provided all he could and even if some nights he was hungry he made certain both his cousins ate. He kept Bofur from lying about his age to join him in dull labor. At night, when Bifur let Bombur and Bofur curl with him in the large bed Rota had abandoned, he forced himself to keep his nightmares silent. To rise from his slumber with only slightly shallow breaths as his shook with battle-dreams. When his aunt finally died of her mourning, Bifur found the strength to bury her. To hold Bombur as he wept and let Bofur lean on him while neither of them cried. They both knew Rota had long been lost.

A few months later when Thorin now called Oakenshield gathered together Durin’s Folk and set about reclaiming the mines of the Blue Mountains, Bifur was one of the first to volunteer. It would provide more money than his woodworking and odd jobs. So he packed up his little family, Bofur almost of age and quiet Bombur. They settled and he worked away beneath the earth, clearing bad rock and digging for coal. At night when his arms were strained and his fingers trembled, he still found time to carve his wood. In those hours while his cousins slept, he taught himself to master his Craft inbetween his work and sleep.

And if some rare nights, when he was afraid he could not keep the nightmares silent, he found his way to the pub where other survivors of Azanulbizar had gathered, he tried to not feel so guilty. Though he knew did not truly have the money to spare, he took comfort from finding others who did not have words. If once in a while the sons of Fundin were seen there or the sons of Groin, Bifur did not mind. Sorrow and fear treated every dwarf as equals.

It was on one of these rare nights, just shy of Bofur’s coming of age, that Bifur was once again found drinking the single pint he allowed himself. A body heaved itself down beside him at his empty table. He took no notice until two more sat before him. He looked up into the recognizable faces of the sons of Fundin. Dwalin gave him a narrowed stare while his brother Balin elbowed his side. Bofur nearly lost his seat when he turned to find an unfamiliar golden-haired dwarf at his side.

“Hello. I am Vili son of Dali and I believe you know of my companions Balin and Dwalin, the sons of Fundin.” The dwarrows gave short nods which Bifur returned. “They are here to assist me. You see I’m looking for someone and I was told that you might help me,” the youth informed him. Bifur answered the youth’s bright tone with a curious look. Vili son of Dali was not a well-known face but even Bifur had heard of the Stiffbeard noble who had been fostered with the Ironfists. What use could any of these upper-class dwarfs have of him?

Dwalin’s hand smacked against the table, his mohawk trembling. “He’d better because I’m not wasting another night helping you search when there’s ale to be had.”

Faster than any could anticipate Balin’s hand shot out and cuffed Dwalin upside his head. The younger son of Fundin seemed barely to notice except to turn his glare on his brother. Balin’s mouth quirked in an apologetic smile directed at Bifur. “Please ignore my brother. He was not actually raised in hole, he just acts like it.”

Dwalin continued to look displeased though his frown had morphed to more of a pout.

Bifur looked from one dwarf to another in confusion. He fixed his gaze on the blond youth. “I’m not sure what help I’ll be but I’ll do what I can.”

“Perfect,” this time the tone was accompanied by an even brighter smile. A hand slipped into his jerkin and returned with a small pouch. “I’ve been looking for someone from the Battle. Brave dwarf, kind of reckless but then who of us weren’t. He saved my life and I never got his name. He dropped this.” A single beard fell onto his palm. Bifur stared at it in awe. He could still remember the day his father had gifted it to him. If he closed his eyes he could feel Rota’s hands braiding it into his beard. He could picture Bofur and Bafur joking that he would be the most handsome warrior as Bombur sat on his knee grabbing for the jewelry.

Some sign of recognition must have shown in his eyes for all three dwarrows focused on him. Vili leaned in closer, a spark of Bifur’s memory alit upon his golden hair. An awareness passed between along their gazes. “I was told you were the only one old enough to be of the family it belonged to. If you don’t mind I’d very much like to know your name.”

And for the first time in years Bifur found the words he needed. “Bifur son of Bour.”

“Well, Bifur son of Bour,” Vili’s eyes sparkled in the tavern’s dull light, “seven years is much too long to have waited to say this but I’d still like to.” He placed the beard in Bifur’s open palm and closed his fingers over it. “I-I’ve—” Vili shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe I’ve dwelt on our meeting for almost a decade and I still don’t know what to say. Just—thank you.” He looked up and held onto Bifur’s hand with a near crushing grip. Vili’s gaze on him spoke more of heroes than any of the song’s Bifur had once sung. “Thank you.” The dwarf gave a half-choked chuckle. “The words seemed too little for what you’ve given me.”

But Bifur understood. Wordlessly he settled his other empty hand on Vili’s and bent his head over their clasped palms. The golden haired dwarf returned the gesture, letting his forehead rest against Bifur’s. A blessing and a sign of friendships, the two recalled that shared memory of terror and relief while the brothers Fundin blocked them from prying eyes.

Yes Bifur understood. Sometimes words were not needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All OC dwarf names except Vili's were chosen or slightly tweaked from Old Norse names.
> 
> Below includes a list of Dwarf ages during the Battle of Azanulbizar and their human equivalent. For more details on dwarf aging please reference this pieces main fic: Made to Endure. I believe I posted notes on it chapter 4.  
> Balin = 73 ~ 28  
> Oin = 69 ~ 27  
> Bifur = 65 ~ 26  
> Dwalin = 64 ~ 26  
> Thorin = 56 ~ 24  
> Dori = 55 ~ 24  
> Gloin = 53 ~23  
> Frerin and Vili = 51 ~ 23  
> Dis = 42 ~ 20 barely of age  
> Dain = 35 ~ 17.5  
> Bofur = 33 ~ 16.5  
> Nori = 15 ~ 7.5  
> Bombur = 7 ~ 3.5  
> Fili, Kili, Ori not born
> 
> Gabilgathol - the Dwarven name for the Kingdom of Belegost, one of the two great Dwarven Kingdoms of Ered Luin
> 
> Thank you for anyone who read this or the main fic. If there is ever a moment or character you would like to know a little bit more about please leave me a comment. I read them all.


	2. Red is the Color of Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ramble about Gimli's reaction to Gloin joining the quest for Erebor.

“ _You can’t leave me behind_.”

Others have argued that the line of Groin have tempers that match the fierce red of their hair. Perhaps it is true for Gimli has repeated the same argument to his father for the past week since Thorin’s return from Bree (in-between periodic bouts of angry silence). As a result the stress lines on Gloin’s face have increased threefold as he prepares for his journey. Yet Gimli refuses to feel guilty. He is past his coming of age by a good twenty years and while young he is certain, as certain as the heat Mahal struck alight beneath his skin, as certain as his father’s and uncle’s skill at lighting any wood aflame, that he is meant to go with them.

What does it matter that he has not mastered a Craft? Why should the Company care about his age? He has heard the stories: of the dwarrows youths who went to Azanulbizar, of Lady Dis’s young marriage. Acceptations had been made while they were wandering in exile from their homeland, why cannot an acceptation be made for Erebor’s reclamation? It is unfair. Fili and Kili, his childhood playmates and his cousins, are going. Even Ori, a slip of a lass who welds little more than quill and parchment, is leaving and she is barely a decade his senior. He may have only started his journeymanship but everyone knows that the Guild Masters are biased against the dwarrow youths. Unless one is of exceptionally skill they often refuse to grant Mastership to any below the age of eighty. It is only due to the Artillator's Guild being so small (as well as Kili strange talent for making tree-shagger weapons) that the youngest Durin heir had managed to obtain his Mastery the year prior. If Gimli was expected to follow such rules, he would not be able to prove himself for another two decades.

Still, more than glory, more than riches, more than seeing a home only spoken about in tales, Gimli does not want to be abandoned. He has heard the whispers among the council of lords. They call Thorin’s quest a fool’s death. They hiss that Erebor is unattainable, that the line of Durin is corrupted with a sickness of the mind. Thror and Thrain have fallen to madness with their obsession over past glories, what is to stop Oakenshield’s descent? Gimli would rather disprove such treacherous naysayers than remain amongst these cowards who spew venom against his kin.

So when his father negates his arguments, Gimli flees the confines of home, letting his rage sing through his axe until the younger dwarrow fighters avoid the weapons arena. He punishes himself and his opponents with grueling drills until his arms shake. Yet still he raises steel to meet steel hoping to cool the angry embers in his chest. It takes another two days of such behavior before Dwalin knocks him on his arse in two moves. Fili and Kili are there to pick him up, as they so often have before, and Gimli finally goes home to speak with his father.

“ _It’s my birthright as much as any of yours_.”

Lif watches her family with weary eyes. She loves her lads but sometimes she just wanted to hit them both upside the head with her axe. They are so alike it makes her heart ache on some days and her teeth ache on others. She knows that there is a fire that flares beneath her husband’s and son’s skins. A passion that cries for glory and honor, that won’t be satisfied until it blazes its way into the legends of the past and sears its mark onto their history. Gimli and Gloin are like the hearts of furnaces, steadily glowing as metal is reshaped in their depths. Their fire burns differently than the one within her family. Vili and Lif were always content to be the sparks that emerged when hammer met steel: fleeting but fulfilled in their simple purpose. In her brother’s case his time to shine was all too brief.

She fears the same will happen to her husband, to her son. She fears that in their need to flare so brightly they will be extinguished by an even greater flame. It is something she has struggled for decades to accustom herself to; ever since she agreed to the clumsy courting of one of Durin’s line. She knew then as she knows no that seldom do the descendants of the Deathless go to their rest quietly. For now she seeks to soften the argument between them. She persuades Gimli to go to the arena and urges Gloin to explain his decision rather than order their son.

Lif places her hand over her stomach and the growing life within. If things were different she might have agreed to go with Thorin, allowing Gimli to go in accordance with Dwarven traditions. But Dis and her child have greater need of her here. So until Gimli is a full adult with his Mastery under his belt, Lif will allow herself to be selfish. If she cannot keep both of her dwarrows safe, she will content herself with holding Gimli and her unborn babe near.

“ _I’m not a dwarfling, anymore_.”

Perhaps that was his and Lif’s first mistake, Gloin thinks. They should have never let Gimli grow up. The older dwarrow is certain that his son’s behavior is a punishment from Mahal on his own father’s behalf. How many times had he begged Groin to let him join his friends in battle? How often did he rage that he was to be left behind when Thror called for warriors for Azanulbizar? How bitter was he when Dwalin, Thorin, Frerin, and Vili left him behind? His heart grows heavy at such thoughts; even now he recalls the shame of watching chestnut-haired Frerin and Lif’s golden brother marching out though they were younger than him. Still Groin had held to their traditions despite the chaos of their exile. Gloin will do nothing less. Not after all the work Thorin has done to make his Hall prosper, their traditions reestablished and upheld in this adoptive land of Durin’s Folk.

In part he is relieved to leave Gimli behind. Gloin was young, not even of age, but he remembers the smell of dragon fire. It’s heat which produces nothing and only bakes the stone in waves of destruction. He has no desire for his son to see the same. Nor is Gloin sure he could choose to protect Fili or Kili or Thorin if it meant Gimli’s life. Or that he would chose a homeland over his son. Oin would expect for his brother to protect Durin’s line first; his cousin’s would do the same. But Gloin does not lie, not to himself or others. While Thorin holds his honor and his fealty, Gimli and Lif are his heart.

To Dwarfkind death is celebrated with tales and songs, drink and laughter. Dwarrows remember the dead by celebrating life. Yet there were no songs, no celebration with the victory of Azanulbizar; Khazad-dûm still not recovered and the dead countless. Grief had fallen so overwhelmingly upon the survivors that not even the Dwarven joy for life could overcome it. He knows if he were to hold Gimli’s broken body it will be his end. Never would his hands strike another fire. Never would he raise his axe with the fierce spirit of the dwarves. Never would any words but sorrow pass his lips.

Which is why he simply tells his son no when he pleads to join them. When Gimli sets out alone to deal his frustration Gloin can only be glad that his son has more of his mother’s temperament. Even in exile, a younger enraged Gloin had not left a single piece of crockery he came in contact with unbroken when Groin had told him the same.

“ _You have to take me on the next one_.”

The words are a salve, soothing the strife that has raged throughout the family’s home. Father and son embrace two days before the first of the Company will depart and Lif is relieved. One more day of her son’s bellyaching and she would have been forced to drag him home from the training field herself. One more day of her husband’s miserable groans and she would have refused him any kisses (one of her most effective ways of dealing with her affectionate husband) until he stopped acting like a dwarfling and spoke to their child. A small smile curves her lips. She is glad they have come to a resolution on their own. It is with restless hands and a full heart that Lif encloses her lads in her arms.

Gloin lets his hand rest on his son’s head, his fingers twining in Gimli’s tangled braids. Though it breaks both their hearts, he cannot help but be glad that his son will not come. That Gloin will not have to see his lad’s fiery hair shine bright beneath dragon flame. His other hand catches in Lif’s locks so similar to their son’s. He compares the two with a focus most dwarrows reserve for gems, fixing it in his memory. Hopeful their new babe will have the same for he has always loved Lif’s hair. He can still remember the first time he saw her, his future wife introduced by Vili. It was that color which first caught his attention: Lif’s hair and beard falling down in beautiful copper braids, delicate things that belied the strength of her arm and the ferocity of her axe. It had reminded him of bright flames. Something he had not dare whisper to her for a long time after the dragon’s coming, when fire was no longer seen as only a blessing used for shaping. He holds his family closer and Gloin prayers as strongly as he is able that Lif’s copper wavelets are the closest his son will ever come to glimpsing such fierce fire.

Gimli clings to his father and lets the comforting feel of Gloin’s rough palms settle the last of his anger. He still longs to go but the desire no longer radiates beneath his flesh. He will gain nothing by acting like the dwarfling he fears his family sees him as. A new resolution sets itself aflame inside him. There is no way he can cram years with of knowledge into the few days before his father’s departure, but Gimli is determined. He will obtain his Mastery as quickly as possible. If he works hard enough now he is certain to be recognized as a full adult before the next grand adventure. He will not be left behind again. For now he contents himself with leaning his head against his mother and father, their intermingled stands of red hair burning brightly in the quiet of their home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about no update for the main fic but in the meantime I thought I'd give you a little bit more insight on Gloin and his family. Also, yes in this AU Lif, mother of Gimli, is sister to Vili, father of Kili and Fili. I liked the idea since Fili, Kili, and Gimli all had the same name endings. I know Lif doesn't get as much thought space as Gloin and Gimli but I wanted to focus on the father-son dynamic between the two. Plus I just feel Lif has it more together and needs less brood space. As a side note I do actually hope to give a little bit of insight on what is going on in Thorin's Hall while the Company is on the quest in the main fic so be prepared. If anyone has a character, scenario, or place they would like to have featured just leave a comment.


End file.
